The Master of the Hunt Affair
by Lothithil
Summary: The game is on when an evil mastermind begins hunting people for pleasure. Will Napoleon find him in time to prevent Illya from becoming the next trophy on his wall?
1. Controlled Conditons

**The Master of the Hunt Affair  
Chapter One: Controlled Conditions**

"Dr. Cochran... I want my partner back."

"But... but! Dr. Kuryakin is my most valued assistant. He's an integral part of this process. I cannot spare him at this crucial time. I – I need him!"

"Well, I need him more. He was only on loan to Section VIII for the duration of his medical leave. He's been cleared for three months now. It's time for him to come out and play again."

Napoleon smiled across the room as Illya methodically organized the workstation and returned reference books and notes to their places on the shelves. The Russian agent moved quickly, with focused intent and an economy of motion. Napoleon was pleased that Illya was no longer wearing the brace and didn't have even a trace of a limp.

When he had finished tidying up, Illya walked to Solo's side and stood, radiating ambivalence.

Solo turned to speak to him. "Ready for some excitement outside of controlled conditions?"

"More than ready," Illya responded. He held out a stiff hand to Dr. Cochran, which the distraught scientist took absently. Illya executed a sharp bow over the handshake and turned on his heel, heading straight for the exit.

Cochran wasn't going to give up that easily. "Dr. Kuryakin! What about our work? We're so close to finding the solution! We're talking Nobel Prize material here... you can't just walk away from – " The door swung firmly shut in his face, cutting off his entreaties.

Cochran turned to Solo, who shrugged eloquently. "Some people just don't seek that kind of recognition. For them, the work itself is all the reward they need." Solo patted the man on his shoulder in a comforting way.

Illya was waiting just outside the door. He managed to look both patient and agitated at the same time. "If we're going, let us go. And don't expect me to thank you."

"Thank me? Well, that isn't _strictly_ necessary," Solo replied, nonplussed. Kuryakin's acerbic disposition seemed more than an affectation; the Russian agent was genuinely annoyed. "I did think that you'd be a little happy to get back into the field."

"Naturally." Illya rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck to relieve stiffness from sitting in one position for a long time. Falling into step, both men began walking down the long, undecorated corridor toward the elevator. "But the work Dr. Cochran and I were doing _is_ important. If I wasn't confident that he could complete it without me, I'd be with him still. Fortunately, we made our breakthrough last night, and the rest is just," Illya made a fluid gesture with his hands, "consecution."

"I'm glad," Napoleon said, honestly. "UNCLE is lucky to have brilliant researchers like Cochran. I would have left you in peace, but Mr. Waverly sent me to collect you. Channel D has been calling and you haven't responded, and somehow communications through the lab have been, um... diverted."

Illya halted in his footsteps, turning toward Napoleon. "Have they?" He frowned, patting down the pockets of the lab coat he was still wearing. "I hadn't realized. Dr. Cochran must have taken unusual steps to prevent us from being interrupted – including the confiscation of my communicator pen. Come, I must make my apologies to Section I."

"I'm sure that will not be necessary, Illya. Mr. Waverly is aware of what Dr. Cochran was doing. He waited until he knew that you could be pulled from this assignment without damaging the results. He is, however, expecting us right away." Napoleon reached out and turned back the lapel of Illya's lab coat, revealing the strap of a shoulder holster beneath the sturdy fabric. "I guess you _are_ ready to get back in the field."

The corner of Illya's mouth twitched upward. "Perhaps more than a little."

They resumed walking, their brisk pace continuing even as the corridor ended in a seemingly solid wall. When they were a breath's close, sections of the wall parted and separated, permitting them to pass through before smoothly closing smartly behind them. The elevator carriage was open and ready to receive them. They stepped inside, turning around to face the closing doors with unconscious, synchronized grace.

xoxox

Illya's eyes roved over the screen filled with numbers, as another man's might roam over the curvaceous delineations of a Botticelli or a Serebriakova. Behind his rigid back, Napoleon Solo and Alexander Waverly looked on from their places, waiting.

Forgetting that he was not alone, Illya murmured softly, "Numbers are beautiful."

"Your opinion, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Waverly's voice drew him back to himself. "Ah, sir... it appears to be a code. One of simple principle, but layered into a complex pattern. It may take some time to decipher – "

"It's a puzzle," Napoleon offered.

"Yes, but why?" Illya pounced on his partner's statement, fascinated by the challenge. "And for who? How did this come to us?" Illya removed a pair of glasses from an inner pocket and put them on, studying the grid of numbers intently.

"Other minds are working on this, Mr. Kuryakin. Enough of it has been deciphered to tell us that this is probably not of Thrush origin." Waverly toggled a switch on his desk and the screen went blank. Illya blinked behind his tinted lenses and turned his head toward the old man. "They are, however, still unsure of what it represents. We'll leave it for now and concentrate, if you please, on these reports."

Illya took his seat, opened the top file, and began to read. "This assignment is most important, and entirely suited to your more, er… energetic talents, Mr. Kuryakin. I am sure that you'll give it as much attention as you have Dr. Cochran's project."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Solo, you'll be on the next flight to London. I want you to help with the reorganization of our UNCLE office there. They were hit rather hard by Thrush, and they're working with a skeleton crew until the new recruits graduate from the Island."

"Sir." Napoleon looked longingly over at Illya's assignment files. He would have much preferred something more stimulating than corporate reorganization and paperwork.

Waverly saw where his gaze had wandered. "Yes, Mr. Solo, I realized you'd rather go out and get your hands dirty… but first things first. There will be plenty of trouble for you to get into after London." He half-turned in his seat away from them, and began to pack tobacco into his pipe with a bony finger. "Off you go. Keep me posted. Preferably with favorable reports."

Napoleon and Illya glanced at each other, then gathered their papers and took their leave. Waverly's assistant had a packet of papers for Napoleon, which contained his travel documents. He extracted the airline ticket and saw that his flight was due to leave in an hour.

"I guess I better get going."

"Do you need a ride to the airport? I feel the need for some fresh air after living in Cochran's lab for four months."

"Don't you have some cramming to do for your assignment?"

"Yes, a bit," Illya tipped the files under his arm upward, "as well as a trip down to Section IV for some programming… but it must wait. I need a night's sleep in a bed and a meal that hasn't been warmed up over a Bunsen burner and served in a Petri dish." Illya smiled as Napoleon gave a mock-shudder. "Let me get my spare communicator pen from my desk and I'll drive."

"Deal."

The agents made their way through the gunmetal warren to the parking garage. Illya produced an oblong cylinder from his lab coat pocket. As they neared their vehicle, he lifted the device, pointed it at the car, and pressed one of the buttons on the side. The doors sprang open automatically, lifting like gull's wings to invite them in.

"Neat gadget," Solo said as he smoothly slipped into the passenger seat.

"The size is still impracticable. Section VIII ought to have it sized-down to something more compact in a few months."

"You lab guys get all the cool toys before we enforcement agents do."

"Perks." Illya said lightly, moving to the driver' side. Then he frowned and ducked down to give Napoleon a dirty look. "What do you mean—_**you**_ lab guys?"

xoxox

Napoleon's retort was lost in a crash of gunfire. The windscreen of the little blue Piranha whined and sang as projectiles danced off its bullet-proof surface. Napoleon ducked instinctively below the dash of the car. Illya dropped flat to the ground, his own gun barking in his hand. He could see the muzzle-flashes in the darker recess of the parking structure.

An alarm began to wail. The machine-gun fire ceased, and Illya could see dark-clad figures running toward the upper level. He pushed himself up to give chase, but had to roll aside to avoid a parting spray from a single machine-gun; one man had remained to provide cover for his comrades. Illya scampered behind a concrete pylon. The man hosed the area with bullets, shooting wildly. Napoleon's shots whined past the gunman's head. He hunkered down and fired blindly until the weapon stuttered, and he threw down his empty gun and ran.

Napoleon climbed into the driver's seat of the car. Illya was already running, up the ramp to the next level of the garage in pursuit. Napoleon punched the button that started the engine—saying a silent 'thank you' to his partner for installing a keyless ignition system—and threw the car into gear. Once the car was in motion, the winged doors folded themselves down, not quite closing, and the carbon-covered windscreen cleaned itself, the wipers smoothing away the debris of shattered bullets.

Napoleon sped round the curve and saw his partner climbing over the embankment to reach the next level. There was no sign of the intruders, but UNCLE security agents were beginning to pour into the area from below. Footsteps and shouted orders echoed around the hard surfaces amid the screech of tires. Napoleon gunned the little car's engine and pulled it through another tight turn. He had to drive through one more level and another turn before he would reach the street level garage.

Illya's shortcut got him to that goal faster, but it also got him into trouble before his partner could back him up. He drew himself smoothly over the last rail, landing lightly on his feet with his gun ready, but four men were waiting for him. One gun whiffed and a dart thudded through the thick fabric of Illya's jacket. He slapped at it, but he was already beginning to sag to his knees as the tranquilizer took effect. His gun slipped out of his hand and clattered on the ground.

The fifth man picked up his gun as the other four bundled the unconscious man into a waiting van, slamming the doors shut as its tires screamed into movement. UNCLE security agents fired on the van as it lunged at them, but their bullets ricocheted off the vehicle without effect. They smashed through the barriers at the exit and fishtailed down the street and was swallowed by the midday traffic.

As Napoleon nosed his car through the debris, a series of gas capsules—carefully planted earlier to assist in the escape—exploded and bathed the entire block in thick, blinding smoke. Napoleon had to stop or risk hitting pedestrians and other drivers.

He pushed himself up out of the car and slammed his fist on the roof of the cabin, feeling helpless and angry. They'd snatched his partner right from under his nose!


	2. Night of the Locust

**The Master of the Hunt Affair  
Chapter Two: Night of the Locust**

"This is most distressing." Alexander Waverly frowned into the bowl of his pipe. "Security in the parking garage has previously been entirely adequate."

"Well, it isn't any more, sir." Napoleon rubbed his hand absently as he stared at the memorandum on the table in front of him. He'd already read and memorized the inadequate information that UNCLE had managed to compile on Illya's abduction.

He switched his gaze to the grid of numbers that had so fascinated his partner earlier. The jumble of letters was as indecipherable as ever. "This was no half-baked operation. This smells all over of THRUSH."

"We can hardly know that for certain until we have more information, Mr. Solo. However, I am inclined to agree with you. The efficiency of this operation does suggest the kind of organization for which THRUSH is reputed." Waverly added, "And all to one purpose: capturing an UNCLE agent."

"Capturing an UNCLE agent... or one UNCLE agent in particular?"

"It might have been their purpose to abduct any member of our staff that stepped into their trap. Could just be bad luck on Mr. Kuryakin's part."

"Or it could be that they were after Illya specifically... he has been using the garage entrance lately while working in the Lab. I find it hard to believe that they'd go to all the trouble to infiltrate UNCLE's outer security perimeter to kidnap just any agent... when it would be so much easier to snatch them off the street or from their homes! Unless..." Napoleon paused, drawing a breath to calm himself.

"Unless they were trying to prove something." Waverly set his pipe aside. "Now that does sound like THRUSH. We'll need to do a full security sweep, interview all personnel and check all electronic devices. Another breach like this cannot be permitted."

"And what are we going to do about Illya?"

"We wait, Mr. Solo. That is all we can do."

xoxox

Illya woke up in darkness. His shoulder burned where the dart had bitten him, but he could not move to ease the discomfort; his limbs were not yet his own to command. He knew he was lying on a cool surface. He tried to flex his fingers; they felt as if they were five kilometers away. His mind was full of fog, slowly clearing.

He could hear movement nearby; the scrape of a chair scooting on the floor, the creak of shifting weight. Breathing and sighs. The click and slap of worn playing cards. Muttered curses and muted laughter.

"Not again! Damn you, Plonk."

"Gin! That's four hundred fifty-five you owe me!"

"You'll die of black lung if you smoke that many cigarettes... and I hope you do. Cheater!"

"Naw! Cigarettes are good for you! They'd never sell 'em to the public if they weren't."

"You're as stupid as you are lucky. Deal."

"Uh-uh. Time to check on our sleeping nephew."

"He'll be out of hours yet. Vasily had me jab him after we boarded the plane, and again before we landed in St. Kitts."

"That was nearly twelve hours ago! Go jab him again!"

"He'll never wake up at all if we overdose him. That won't please the Master."

"Neither will letting him escape."

"Escape! How's he gonna manage that? He's hopped up and locked in a bunker! He'd need to be Houdini to get outta there!"

"To hear tell, this guy _**is**_ Houdini! He's slick as a greased cat and has more lives!"

"You're _drunk_. He's just a man. Now deal."

Illya listened to their talk, gradually becoming more and more aware. He must have been given a great deal of some kind of drug or other; it felt a lot like opiates. Illya didn't like it; he didn't like not being in control. But he had UNCLE training and conditioning to fall back on, and he was grateful for that. The drug would not be as effective on him as it would on another man. All he needed was a few more minutes and he was sure he could stand.

Already he could move, a little. He rolled over and saw a line of light underscoring the doorway to the room where he was being kept. He could see shadows of movement occasionally, though everything was blurry and indistinct. He hoped it was just the drug that was affecting his eyes.

UNCLE agents were trained to use all their senses; even if he couldn't see well, from what he could hear and feel by way of echoes and vibrations, he guessed that there were two men, probably in a smallish room, obviously playing cards to pass the time. When they paused in their bickering, Illya thought he could hear a droning sound beyond; a deep, almost hypnotic buzz, like an engine or turbine.

As his mind grew still clearer and his eyes began to cooperate, he began to distinguish features in the room he was in. A tiny window of slightly less blackness, scored by bars, was high in the wall opposite the door. It was night, and a humid fragrance breathed through the room, and it vibrated with the noise. It was then that he realized it was not a mechanical sound at all—it was the powerful drone of cicadas.

Illya lay on the floor and listened to the night symphony, reflecting that this was not exactly what he had in mind when he had told his partner that he wanted some fresh air.

No, not at all what he'd had in mind.

xoxox

Illya had reached his feet and was beginning to feel something of himself when he heard his guards scuffle suddenly to their feet. There was nothing in the room he could use as a weapon, so he merely stood, arms at his sides and his weight forward on his toes. If there were only two of them, he might be able to subdue them both and escape.

When the door swung out, however, there were four men standing there. Illya didn't move, though his body quivered with suppressed adrenaline. It was too late to play as though he were still drugged-out. He lowered his chin and watched them as they entered the room and spread out around him.

They regarded him with mixed expressions, but no one said a word. They circled him and left the doorway open; it became apparent that they expected him to exit the room and accompany them somewhere. He wasn't inclined to be cooperative, but when two of the men produced pistols, he acquiesced and walked out of the room. _Better than being dragged,_ he mused, _and a lot more dignified_.

Through a smallish room with a table strewn with cards, though another door and down a hallway to a staircase that led upward in one long, straight flight. Illya was held at the bottom while two men ascended, then he was encouraged to climb up, followed by the others. They stayed beyond arms' length, taking no chances with the deceptively passive agent.

_My reputation precedes me, it seems._

They guided him through another hallway, but this one was vaulted and richly decorated with antiques and tribal art from every corner of the earth: tapestries depicting animals and horses, hounds and hares; carved statues, of wood, bone, and stone; pottery in all shape and sizes, much of it incredibly old and some in mere fragments, carefully laid in patterns.

They entered a wide foyer where a grand staircase swept upwards. Everywhere was artwork of animals and the hunt, as well as stands of gear and displays of weapons. Swords, spears, cases containing varieties of barbed arrowheads, cannon balls, shot, shells and bullets. Knives of every shape, length, design, and material were laid out in glittering fans.

As they passed these dangerous collections, his escorts watched him carefully. Once he wandered a little too close to a rack of cestuses – the leather well-oiled and the steel spikes wickedly sharp-looking – and was rewarded with a stiff poke to his back with the business end of a pistol.

The martial décor scheme continued, and as they walked onward, the weapons displays evolved to more potentially lethal varieties, and also became more contempory. Soon they entered a wide doorway that led to a large room. Over the door was displayed a hand-held missile launcher, set on a carved wooden mount like a hunting prize, garlanded with coarse hand-woven ropes. As they drew closer, Illya realized the ropes were made from braided hair. He hoped, faintly nauseated, that it was horsehair.

Stepping beneath this display, Illya found a vision of nightmares lurking beyond the threshold. He paused, half in and half out, filled with sickness at what he saw. His escort pushed him onward when he hesitated.

The ceiling was high and hung with track lights that focused their beams on tables set around the room or on sections of the walls, leaving the farthest corner in darkness. Every piece of furniture was made of bone, from every imaginable animal. Illya recognized the skulls of several small mammals and reptiles, some quite rare, piled up like miniature totem poles to form the legs of a ladderback chair made from narwhal tusks.

Ivory from elephants, whales, and rhinoceros jutted up like stalagmites. Hides and furs and hanks of hair were collected and mounted. Jars of substances that Illya felt no desire to examine more closely sat dustless on a tall wooden cabinet that rose to the ceiling, a rolling ladder built to give access. In a decent home, it would have held books.

There were animals frozen in the moment of their destruction, expertly preserved so that they appeared as lifelike as possible, caged in beams of light. Their glassy eyes seemed to follow him as he made his reluctant way forward, their bared teeth hissing a soundless warning. Birds soared perpetually overhead, hung from wires that ran upward to disappear among the rafters.

The room was very large, and in the center, seated on a chair covered with the pelts of a half-dozen endangered species, was a man. Behind him, the dark corner of the room brooded. As they approached him, he rose from his chair and stood waiting, gripping the wide belt at his waist, his hands framing an intricately wrought and oversized silver buckle.

Illya studied the man with covert interest. He was no taller or stouter than the other men, but there was something about him that made him seem more dangerous. His hands were large and scarred, and his feet were planted in a stance that telegraphed competence and physical skill.

Illya approached him, noticing that his vanguard fell back slightly as they drew near. He sensed it was more fear than respect. Illya continued until he reached the edge of the rug upon which the chair was centered. It was the hide of an African lion, head still attached and looking indignant. He loathed the idea of treading on the distasteful thing.

The man studied Illya in return. He noted where Illya had stopped and as if guessing the reason, the corner of his unpleasant mouth writhed upward in a smile or a sneer. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, as if silently daring Illya to step forward.

Illya remained where he had stopped. It was the eyes, he decided. The weirdness of this man's face was in his eyes; they seemed to be looking in slightly different directions. Perhaps one of them was glass... it gave him an askew, off-kilter appearance. _A madman in a museum of cruelty._

"Flickinger." The man spoke; his voice was deep and commanding. A hint of an accent drew out his vowels, clipped the consonants in a way that made Illya's eyebrow twitch in recognition.

"Yes, Master Koschei." Illya recognized the voice of the man who had been losing at gin rummy.

"This man is not sedated. He is not, I would venture to say, even remotely drowsy. Were you not instructed to keep him... compliant?" Illya decided the man must be of Russian descent, though his accent was worn thin with time and the integration and use of other languages.

"Yes, sir... so he oughta be. Drooling on the floor he should ha' been... but—"

"Obviously he is not. No matter... this saves some time. I am ready to talk to him now anyway." The man turned one of his crazy eyes toward Flickinger. "But in the future, do try to adhere to my orders... or I will have you killed."

The man gulped. "Yes, M—master."

The man lifted one of his hands and two of the men quickly seized Illya, forcing him toward a table set to one side of the lion rug, on the boundary of where the lights lost their struggle with the shadows. Its surface was clear except for a single ring bolted in the center of the tabletop. A length of chain about sixty centimeters was threaded through the ring, and on the ends were metal bracelets.

Illya tried to twist out of the grip of the men before they could restrain him, but a hard hand closed upon the back of his neck, pinching nerves and bringing a stinging paralysis over Illya's limbs. His numb arms were recaptured and his wrists snugly secured before he was released. Instantly Illya recovered from the paralysis. He turned as far as the chain would permit and cast a calculating look over the man who had subdued him.

He was a blunt hulk, not so overbound with muscle to be a wrestler, but his musculature was very obvious; slabs of meat swelled on his arms and chest, endangering his safari-cut shirt. Beneath the short sleeves, corded arms were cut with whips of sinew, ending with callused, rawboned knuckles. He returned Illya's stare with a flat, disinterested expression, like a bear too hungry to bother to eat so small a mouse.

"I see you've met Garrard. He is foreman here in my little paradise, and my first lieutenant. I suggest you do not arouse his displeasure."

The 'Master' walked over to stand across the table from Illya, darkness gathered at his back. His air of superiority immediately annoyed the younger man. Illya hid his annoyance, recognizing a game of intimidation that the man was used to playing – and winning. He guessed that this table had served as a setting for other, similar interviews.

He waited for a few moments, and when he didn't get the response from his captive that he wanted, the Master spoke. "You are Illya Nikolaievitch Kuryakin."

Illya so no reason to deny it. He lifted his chin and said, "May I know who is my jailer?"

"Of course, my boy… I am Koschei." Illya looked at him sharply as he uttered the name. Koschei seemed pleased at his reaction. "Master of Buyan. That is where you find yourself now, although that information will do you little good. And I would not say I am your jailer. Say rather, your fellow gamesman. We have much in common, you see."

"At the moment, no, I do not see. You are free and I—," Illya rattled his chains to make his point.

Koschei laughed. "Yes, well… only until we've established the parameters of our little contest. I promise that the chains will be removed very soon. You will walk freely out of this room, unhindered and unfettered."

The man's accent grew a little stronger as he spoke. To Illya, it seemed as much of an affectation as the weapons and the dead animals—an intimidation that had worked well before, but now was less effective. He was trying a little harder now to impress his prisoner.

He snapped his fingers and one of his men brought him a thin, square object the size of a framed family portrait. No faces stared out from the glassy surface, however; it appeared to be inscribed with numbers and symbols, a great jumble as if someone had stacked several crossword puzzles and then erased all the lines.

It was suggestively similar to the one Illya had seen on the big screen in Waverly's office.

Koschei held the thing where Illya could see it plainly. "Interesting, isn't it? A decoding machine… very ingenious, if I do say so myself. For the discussing of delicate matters when I don't want prying ears to overhear." He held the thing as if he were displaying it on auction, extolling its virtues to drive up the bid. "Place a coded message under the glass… any code in any language… and this little beauty can decode it. A master decoder for the Master, eh?" he laughed at his own joke; his flunkies echoed his amusement with clumsy, forced gaiety. Except for Garrard, who continued to stare mutely at Illya.

"It also sends messages, using radio relay." He turned the frame toward himself and began to press the surface of the glass in a seemingly patternless manner. "I am now sending a message to your friends at UNCLE. Letting them know that you are here—if not actually where you are. Not that. Not yet.

"Of course, this will be untraceable, and therefore might be ignored as a prank unless properly signed. The signature is the most important part, you know. How do you think I should sign this, Mr. Kuryakin? So that Mr. Napoleon Solo will answer my challenge?

"We have to let Mr. Solo know. He's clever enough to know that the game has begun. The first moves have already been played."

He looked up at Illya, meeting his gaze with one eye while the other one seemed to peer back toward the darkness, saying, "Don't get the wrong idea, Mr. Kuryakin. Your part in the game is finished. You were the first pawn taken. You have been swept from the board.

"Still, the game can use you… you haven't answered my question yet. How should I sign this message so that Solo hears it? You will not answer. Well… then I'll ask my friend Garrard if he has an opinion. He has an opinion on everything," he added in a companionable stage whisper.

He looked at Garrard and gave him one of his sick smiles. "Garrard, Mr. Kuryakin does not wish to play anymore. How do you suggest we sign this message?"

Garrard answered his boss by grabbing a handful of blond hair and forcing Illya's head back, checking his thick body up against Illya so that the slim agent could not kick him or squirm out of his grip. A knife appeared in the other gnarled hand. Garrard skated the glittering edge across the stretched skin of Illya's throat.

Illya found it impossible to look away from the knife. His head held firm, he turned his eyes to watch the knife slide up, up and over his jaw and along one cheek. It was a very big knife.

The blade left no cut or scratch on the pale skin; Garrard applied only enough pressure to make Illya feel it, hear it scraping along. The blade caught and turned the lights as the tip paused near Illya's watering eyes. Then it made a slow turn toward his right ear.

The Master did not look up from his encryption machine as he said, "Don't be too messy, Garrard… you know how these things can get held up in the post."


	3. Shave and a Haircut

**The Master of the Hunt Affair  
Chapter Three: Shave and a Haircut**

Because of the length of the chain binding him, Illya had to bend low to touch the stinging cut above his ear. A patch of his hair and skin lay on the table, courtesy of Garrard's knife. He was bleeding freely, could feel it trickling down his face and neck to soak the collar of his shirt. He was glad that the brute didn't take his ear off—but the evening was still young.

Regarding the blood on his fingers, Illya said to Koschei, "So much for your promises."

"I said you'd walk out of this room unhindered and unfettered—I said nothing about unharmed." He reached out and flipped back a lock of Illya's hair that had stuck to his sweat-dampened face. "You needed a trim, anyway. Long hair can be a disadvantage. Provides your opponent with a handhold."

Illya jerked his head back from the touch; even among people he considered friends, he did not permit such familiar gestures.

Koschei smiled at his reaction; but he also withdrew his hand. "Plunket, take Mr. Kuryakin's signature and pack it for postage. Pack it well—we don't want any more delays."

"Yes, Master." Plunket looked embarrassed as he picked up the item gingerly. Illya glowered at him. He stepped away hastily.

Flickinger elbowed him lightly as he passed, "Don't flub it this time, Plonk."

"Shut yer hole, Flick," Plunket muttered.

Koschei ignored their antics. He leaned toward Illya to explain, "Koschei ignored their antics. He leaned toward Illya to explain, "The last one leaked all over a mail clerk and was turned over to federal agencies. Pity. Because of the delay, they failed to make the ransom payment on time. Waste of a perfectly good oil tycoon's heir. They did pay, of course, but too late to keep him alive. Those are the rules. You pay late, you get – what is left. Buyan is very costly to maintain, and I confess... since leaving Russia, my tastes have grown somewhat... decadent. But let us not talk of this – this is business! It doesn't concern you."

"I think it concerns me greatly." Illya frowned. "You didn't expect me to give you a recognition sign at all . . . you prefer this kind of 'signature'. You've used it before."

"Yes. It provides not only proof of capture, but positive identification."

"Who do you expect to pay a ransom for me?"

"For you! Ha!" Koschei's laughter was a bark. "I don't expect anyone to pay anything for you! No, no." He indulged himself in a long hearty chuckle. "You misunderstand. That is not the plan. You are not goods to be exchanged for money. No, this is an altogether different sport.

"_That_ is the difference. Money is about business. Sport is about _pleasure_. Every good hunt needs good bait. There's nothing I enjoy more than a good hunt. And that is where you come in, _tovarich_."

"I am _not_ your comrade."

Koschei ignored Illya's remark. "The business is business... a means to an end. But I don't rely solely on ransoms to support my estate. I also take... commissions. You see, there are as many people that others will pay **not** to have returned as there are who will pay a ransom. More, in some cases. In the case of your Mr. Solo... some will pay very handsomely."

Illya's jaw clenched as he began to understand.

"As I was saying earlier—you and I have much in common. As well as being sons of the Soviet, we are both hunters of men. You for your Network of order and law, and me for the law and order of Nature. You might look upon us as the opposing faces of a coin. Although I admit that is not an adequate allegory—as our value is not on par. My service to humanity is far greater, I think.

"You perpetuate mediocrity, you see, you and your organization. You level the playing field and hold all men in equal value, no matter their blood or birth, or skill. I, on the other hand, cull the herd. Those who are inferior, who prevent others from reaching their potential—"

"Spare me your Machiavellian rationalizations," Illya said with weary sarcasm. "You are a murderer—no more and no less. Do not assign virtue to your perverse inclinations."

"Perverse?" Koschei frowned. "_You_ judge **me** as perverse?" He spoke the words in disbelief. He looked at Garrard and nodded toward Kuryakin. Garrard bunched up his fist and struck Illya across the face.

Stars danced in Illya's vision for the next few minutes. Distantly he felt himself picked him up by his collar and propped over the table edge. When he could refocus his eyes, he felt around inside his mouth with his tongue for loose teeth.

"That is what you'll get when you can't be civil. I imagine that you'll get quite a bit more before we're done talking."

Koschei waited until Kuryakin raised his eyes again. "I have your attention, now, yes? Well, I should have expected that you couldn't appreciate the intricacies of my designs. That is not your purview at all.

"Your weakness, if you'll permit me to say so, is that you are too direct. You have no subtlety. No refinement. In fact, you barely qualify as more than an animal – a very well-trained animal, I'll give you that. Some intelligence you have, and quick reflexes. But you need Napoleon Solo to do your real thinking for you.

"He will be coming here, of course, once he receives my message. And then I shall have a real game... a real opponent against whom I can pit my intellect."

Illya listened without responding, seeing no purpose in encouraging more abuse on himself. The more this madman talked, the more he might give away. And if he underestimated Kuryakin's ability and skill—so much the better.

"The real beauty of this is, of course, that I will profit handsomely by disposing of him." Koschei gave Illya a long look, as if measuring him with his eyes. "Until he arrives, we can at least have a diversion... you are not an inconsiderable challenge, even if you are no match for my genius."

He turned away from Illya, facing the darkened corner of his room. On the side of the table were a series of toggle switches. Koschei touched one, but did not switch it on yet.

"This is my collection. My private collection. Only trophies from the very best hunts. The most challenging. The most deadly. Those are the ones I collect here. They are a library of memories; a catalog of successes and scars. This is my greatest pride, and the real reason for everything I do." He turned around and looked at Illya. As if offering a great privilege, he asked, "Mr. Kuryakin, would you like to see my collection?"

_Not really,_ Illya thought, _but if it will keep me alive a little longer_—"Why not?"

Koschei flipped the switch that flooded the shadows with obscene light.

Illya immediately wished for darkness again. He had no words for what he saw. He was grateful that he had not eaten anything recently. Only his training kept him from retching at the sight, from looking away or closing his eyes. Against all his instincts, he carefully noted everything he saw, hoping that same training would somehow prevent future nightmares about what he was seeing.

There were a series of glass boxes, set upright like crystal pillars. On each was a small golden plaque with names and dates and details written. Inside each box was a single figure. Like the animals in Koschei's cruel museum, they were all dead; all perfectly preserved at the moments of their deaths.

They were men. Koschei's trophies.

Illya clenched his jaw as he forced himself to memorize their faces. There was no one he knew—but there was one empty case, in the center of the display. He couldn't see the inscription on the golden plaque at the base... but he ventured he could guess whose name it bore.

"Maybe, Mr. Kuryakin—_**if**_ you give a good Hunt, that is—we'll find room for one more case."

"How considerate," Illya muttered dryly.

xoxox

The restaurant was expensive, and so was the lady.

Napoleon Solo stood as she glided toward the table. He didn't have to pretend to be enchanted; Serena was stunning. The luxurious furs she wore, the glittering diamonds, the sensuous silken garments that hugged her voluptuous body were the merest accessories on her. Napoleon knew that she would look just as marvelous in sackcloth as satin—and he'd seen her in less.

His smile was generous and full of compliments as he took her hand and raised it to his lips, but Serena wasn't fooled. She allowed him to seat her and pour her a drink before she said, "You wound me, Napoleon. I thought you called me because you missed me. It has been so long since—August." She raised her champagne glass to her lips, leaving a painted kiss on the crystal without actually drinking.

Napoleon took her glass from her fingers and sipped from it, then placed it in front of her again. "I do miss you, my dear. But I'll be honest with you—"

"I do hate it when a man says that to me," Serena pouted. "Honesty is such a restrictive quality." She leaned forward and traced his mouth with a gloved finger. "I would rather hear how pleased you are to see me, and how you think I am more beautiful than any other woman alive."

"I am, and I do," Napoleon said. "In all the world there is no other person I'd rather see sitting beside me right now." He dropped a kiss on her perfumed neck, murmuring in her ear, "with one exception." He brought his lips close to her ear and breathed a name.

Serena frowned. "Darling, I am not amused."

"Neither am I. I need information, Serena, and I don't have time to tease it out of you. I'll make it worth your time, but I need you to be direct with me now. Later, I swear, we'll paint the whole town fuchsia if it pleases you. "

"_Carte __blanche__?_" She smiled as she considered the possibilities. "Are you sure you can keep such a promise, Napoleon?"

"You know where the lines are drawn. Anything on this side—anything. **If** you can help me." Napoleon slid his hand up to the edge of her glove, running a finger under the soft material and the softer skin beneath.

"Very well, darling. Ask." She sipped her champagne and allowed him to pet her hand.

Napoleon looked at her expectantly. "All right!" she exclaimed after a moment. "I can guess what you want to know—but surely you know I can't help you. And why should I? Mr. Kuryakin doesn't even like me—"

Napoleon's fingers on her arm turned into a vice. She gasped and dropped her champagne glass. "You're hurting me, Napoleon!"

"Tell me," he said, softening his grip but not releasing her. "What do you know about Illya?"

"I _honestly_," she spat the word," don't know where Mr. Kuryakin is. Naturally THRUSH is all abuzz with the news of his disappearance, but I swear to you, Napoleon—I do not know where he is. He was not taken by my people."

"But you know about it—if THRUSH isn't involved, then they are behind it somehow—tell me what you do know."

Serena tried once more to extract her hand from Napoleon's grip. He held her, but moved closer and placed a gentle arm over her shoulders. "Tell me."

Serena looked away from him, and then glanced back into his face. "I don't know anything about Mr. Kuryakin. But I have heard things about _you_, my love. There is a price on that handsome head of yours."

Napoleon shrugged. "That's hardly news. I've had contracts on me for years – the mafia, the cartels, the Anti-masons—and THRUSH offers a bounty on any UNCLE agent as a matter of form."

"True. But this is more than point-scoring for THRUSH promotions or pocket money. The contract has been signed-off—you are now out-of-bounds to the usual operators, Napoleon."

"When did this happen?" Napoleon released her arm and righted her glass, filling it with more champagne.

"The word came through earlier this evening—just before you called me. I thought this would be my last chance to see you—"

"How romantic," Napoleon twitched his mouth, eyeing her coolly. "That doesn't make much sense, Serena. Why did you come? You must know that I can't keep my promise to you if I'm dead."

"But I don't want you _dead,_ darling," Serena sighed. She reached up and brushed back the stray hair on Napoleon's forehead. "It is so uncouth! I like the game the way it is. But this man—he never fails to complete his contracts. Ever."

"I want his name, Serena. He may have something to do with Illya's disappearance."

"I don't know his name," Serena insisted.

"Then _why_ did you come?"

"Because I don't _want_ you to be killed. The world is a more interesting place with you in it." Her satin-covered hand caressed his face. "But I don't know how I can help you, dear Napoleon. I would if I could. That is all that I know, other than—" She looked away from him, tears sparking in her eyes.

"What?" Napoleon lifted her chin to make her look at him.

"I hear—THRUSH has already canceled all the outstanding contracts on Mr. Kuryakin. They would only do that if—if he was already—" She broke off as she saw something dark and full of pain in his eyes. She caressed his face again, whispering, "I'm sorry, Napoleon. I really am."


	4. A Whole Lot of Nickels

**The Master of the Hunt Affair  
Chapter Four: A Whole Lot of Nickels**

Waverly looked up from the paper he was examining. "Where did you come by this, Mr. Solo?"

"A contact of mine, sir – um, from the enemy camp. It's all the information I could get on Illya's kidnapping."

"It's that blasted jumbled-up numbers nonsense!" Waverly grumbled, turning the paper sideways to see if it would suddenly make sense if viewed differently. "I don't suppose your contact told you how to decode it."

"No, sir. But in light of what she told me concerning Illya – " Napoleon found he had to take a breath before he could continue. "I think I can guess what it says."

"A death-notice on Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly harrumphed, and then turned his attention to his master board, where he began throwing switches and barking orders. Solo found himself sinking into a chair, suddenly tired.

"No time for that, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, over his shoulder. "It will take more than a scrambled message and rumor to close the file on that young man. If I had a nickel for every time – "

Napoleon blinked and shook himself. "Yes, sir. I'm sure you're right."

"Of course I am." Waverly turned and looked at his top agent. "Go home, Mr. Solo. Get some sleep. I think that things will be moving very quickly very soon. I want you in top form when the word comes up."

xoxox

Illya leaned back against the wall of his cell and watched the tops of the trees through the tiny window. The sky beyond was hazy blue, the young day already swelteringly hot. He could hear the complaints of birds crackling though the moist air. The floor and walls were still cool, however, and he took advantage of this small comfort as he reflected on all the things he had learned of his host.

Koschei, of course, had to give his guest the exciting highlights of his best Hunts, while walking though his horrific trophy collection. Illya had listened with only half an ear, focusing most of his attention on the men around him; evaluating, waiting.

Before they began, Koschei had fingered the elaborate buckle on his belt and the cuffs on Illya's wrists had sprung open. Good to his word, if not to his fellow man, Koschei upheld his promise to his prisoner; Illya walked out of that hall unfettered and unhindered, although not unguarded.

Garrard hovered at his back while he politely followed Koschei though the grotesque tour. He kept his demeanor submissive, and was rewarded by slightly relaxed vigilance on the part of his guards. Obviously Garrard and Flickinger had heard these tales enough times to be bored by them. Koschei ignored the guards, completely mesmerized by his latest embalmed trophy, whose sad history he spelled out for Illya in tedious detail.

When the tour ended, Illya was guided right back to his cell. Fortunately, they took the same route that they had come by, giving Illya an opportunity to exercise a talent he had once learned from a grateful Gypsy he had befriended in Turkistan. Thanks to his half-bored guards, he managed to fill his pockets with all manner of potentially useful things.

Rubbing at the dried blood on his face, he sat and pondered his next move. He could leave this cell, he was sure – they had taken his Special and his communicator, but had not despoiled him of his clothes or other useful accessories – but once free he would be at a serious disadvantage. He did not know where he was, other than some tropical location. If the things he had overheard from Flickinger and Plucket could be believed, he could be anywhere from Florida to some exotic point south of the equator.

Also, there was Koschei to consider. The images summoned up inside Illya by that diabolic name would have been enough to chill the young Russian, even in the heat of a tropical day. And his estate, named Buyan – also from Russian legends – implied an inescapable island filled with peril.

Illya was not superstitious, nor was he easily intimidated, but being a very practical and cautious man, he knew he would be wise to consider all that he had learned, however fantastic. So he let himself think in the privacy of his cell. His thoughts eventually sifted down to deciding that, once evening had begun to settle in, he would excuse himself from the guest house of the 'Master', find some food and water, and if not transportation, possibly a map that could show him where he was and where he might go for assistance. He suspected that Koschei wanted him to try to escape immediately, but in the full sunlight and heat of the day, he knew he would be seriously disadvantaged.

The heat of the day continued to grow. Illya sat on the corner and closed his eyes to get what rest he could.

Warmth on his ankle woke him. The sun had long since passed its zenith; the sunbeam slanting through his tiny window had shifted across the floor and was now creeping across his foot. He stood up and stretched; his muscles were stiff from the hardness of the floor and from dehydration. He needed water. He could hear the drip-drip-drip of water somewhere beyond the door; the dryness of his throat made it hard to ignore.

Other, louder noises were now coming from beyond the door; he heard the clink of keys and cursing. He moved away from the back of the cell, giving himself room for whatever action might become necessary.

Flickinger pulled the door open and showed Illya the barrel of a gun. "Just stay there, little man," he said scornfully. "The Master ordered that you be given something to eat – but I'd just as soon feed you a few ounces of lead." He moved back to allow Plunket to enter, carrying a tray.

"Mmmm… smells good!" Plunket said as he raised the tray to his nose. The wiry man looked around for a place to set the tray, but there was, of course, no table or chair in the barren cell. "Um, here," he awkwardly offered the tray to Illya. "Take this."

"No, thank you." Illya backed up to the wall. He could have rushed them, knocked the skinny one into the one with the gun and made his escape, but he didn't like the timing. Beside, it had occurred to him to try another approach. "I'm not hungry. Why don't you two have it?"

"The Master said – " Flickinger began to say. Illya interrupted him.

"He's _your_ master, **not** mine. I won't eat it, so you can either take it away or scrape it off the wall." Illya shrugged. "Your choice."

"Fine! You won't get a chance to starve to death." He yanked the confused Plunket back by the collar of his shirt.

"Hey! You'll make me drop it, Flick! Fean's cooking shouldn'a be wasted!"

The door boomed shut. Illya sidled up to the panel and pressed his ear to the crack. He could hear the two men eating sloppily; a clatter of dishware and chewing that went on for several minutes, punctuated by squabbling over choice morsels and the last piece of bread.

Not long afterward, he heard the unmistakable sound of vulgar yawning, followed soon by the sighs and thumps of two bodies sliding out of chairs onto the floor.

_If I had a ruble for every time someone tried to drug my food_… Illya smiled and used the whip knife he'd filched from the dagger collection to pick the lock to his cell.

Stepping among the snoring bodies of his erstwhile guards, he helped himself to two guns, two belt knives, and a cosh. He searched the small room swiftly, but couldn't find anything to carry water in, so he drank as much as he could take from the dripping faucet in the corner. There wasn't a scrap of food, but Illya took whatever he could find that might be useful, including Flickinger's cigarettes and lighter.

Koschei would expect him to be drugged and out of the picture for several hours. He could use those hours now to find the other things he needed: transportation or a means of communication – both, for a best-case scenario. Worst-case, he'd be tossed back in this cell. The master was unlikely to cheat himself of his favorite sport.

The sun was sinking quickly, the day was still hot and humid, but the time felt right. Illya crept up the stairs.


	5. Postmarked For Death

**The Master of the Hunt  
Chapter Five, Postmarked For Death**

Napoleon Solo was good. Good at his job, good in his character. Good with the ladies, of course. Not perfect, no, but not for want of trying – and exceedingly lucky. One might even call him 'blessed'.

The one thing in which Napoleon had not been blessed – sitting on his hands when a friend was in trouble. And it occurred to him, after his chat with Mr. Waverly, that there was no need for him to be idle. THRUSH had given him _carte blanche_, however inadvertently. The contract they had placed on his life had been bought – they couldn't touch him, nor would any of the petty independent contractors dare. He was bulletproof... except to the man who held the contract.

He didn't know who that man was… but he knew who he wasn't. That was why Napoleon Solo was now strolling casually into a bar in the most disreputable area of New York, drawing the disbelieving stares of the clientele – an assembly of tough individuals ranging from petty thieves to hired killers.

The bar was known simply as 'The Bar'. No shingle hung over the creaking door that admitted Solo into the smoky den, nor were there neon signs or playful music to draw in customers. There were no tourists, no slumming jet-setters, no working girls. The men leaning on the bar, drinking muddy liquor from label-less bottles, squinted past puckered scars or scowled over grizzled beards at the immaculately suited man who sauntered into their midst. Someone muttered "Fuzz", and scowls deepened, hands inching toward knife and gun. Napoleon thrust his chin forward with a daring glimmer in his eye. The hands drifted back to drinks, gathering shadows around them as they fell back to uncertainty.

Napoleon cast around the joint, his handsome features arranged in an expression of amused disdain. He wandered among the greasy tables and rickety chairs, looking into the faces of the men who glared back belligerently. The bartender, a massive, filthy man missing a finger and part of an ear, leaned on the bar and muttered, "We don't serve your kind in here, copper."

Napoleon smiled. "That's okay, my good sir… I wouldn't drink anything that has been exposed to this poisonous atmosphere until _after_ I've had my tetanus shots. Maybe not even then." He touched the surface of the bar and regarded his fingers with disgust. He made a show of taking out a handkerchief and wiping his hands clean as he strolled into the center of the room.

"Which one of you _kind gentlemen_ will introduce me to Funeral Sam?"

Aggressive laughter erupted. Napoleon found himself looking at a lot of shoulders and boot heels as the men turned away from him. Some slipped quietly out of one of the many exits that made the bar so popular among the seedier inhabitants of New York. A few eyed him and whispered ominous conjectures to their table mates. The message came through clearly; any cop stupid enough to come here looking for Sam was welcome to find him on his own.

Solo spotted him then; one man was sitting in a semi-circle booth toward the back: Funeral Sam. Triggerman, extorter, mercenary, hit man – pick a sin, and he was sure to have done it. He was the man to go to when you wanted to make someone you didn't like disappear and you didn't care how – if you had the money. He was gaping at Solo's entrance, shaking his head in disbelief.

Napoleon smiled and waved broadly, then made his way through the evaporating crowd toward him. He slipped into the seat without an invitation. "Hello Sam."

"Solo. You're the last person I'd expect to see in this bar. Why hasn't anyone killed you yet?"

"I guess I'm just too good-looking to die."

Sam laughed his rusty laugh, pointed a stained finger at Napoleon. "You're not going to try to bust me again, are you? I was acquitted on those charges, you know."

"I'd say you were lucky, but I know better. That was a bribe well spent, Sam."

"Federal judges _are_ expensive," Sam agreed, sipping a cloudy beer. "And to think of all the trouble that you and Kuryakin went to t' try and put me away… better luck next time, Solo." He rasped out another laugh and added, "'Course, it won't be so easy next time, without your yellow-haired sidekick." He snickered when Solo scowled at him. "Yeah, I heard."

His laughter dried up when he saw the black look on Solo's face. He straightened in his seat, his hand creeping toward the gun he wore under his coat before he thought better of it and put his hands back around his sweating beer glass. "Look, don't expect me to mourn for him. I'd'a cashed the little bastard in myself if I cou – "

Sam didn't finish his sentence; he was finding it suddenly hard to breathe with Solo's forearm across his windpipe, pinning him to the wall behind the booth. His hands scrabbling at the agent's arm and shoulder, his bulging eyes pleading for air.

Solo relieved the man of his gun, tossing it on the table in a pool of spilled beer. "Tell me exactly what you've heard, Sam, and keep it civil. I'm not in the mood."

"Jeez, Solo! Gimme a break!" Sam squeaked as the pressure eased a trifle. "I don't know – gack!" His feet kicked the underside of the table urgently as Solo leaned into him. "O–kay! Okay!" Solo released him and he sagged into the seat, panting and rubbing his throat.

Solo was aware that the bar behind them was suddenly vacant; even the bartender had suddenly realized he had business elsewhere. "Chapter and verse, Sam… and make me believe it. Otherwise, the next funeral you arrange could be your own."

xoxox

"Daring, Mr. Solo. Even for you."

"Perhaps, sir, but I learned what I needed to know. There has been a ripple through the underworld ever since this assassin started servicing contracts. His legend has grown with each telling, I'm sure, but after all the, ah… interviews I staged, there are some consistent facts to consider. This guy is a ghost – nobody knows who he really is or where he bases his operations – but he has crew harvested from the international mercenary pool. One guy in particular is associated with him – Hans Garrard, formerly of Berlin, Moscow, and Buenos Aires. Section 4 came up with a photograph."

Waverly prodded the image with the stem of his pipe. "Grim-looking fellow."

"As grim as the rest of his file. He was a member of the Stasi death squad, but was thrown out in 1959 for 'unethical behavior' after he petitioned his superiors to change the official method of execution from guillotine to crucifixion. He was sent to Moscow for tribunal, but escaped from there to Brazil, where he began selling his talents for money. He went underground a few years ago, but has been spotted in New York, by our helpful barfly and some of his buddies."

"We'll see what else we can learn from Mr. Garrard." Extracting a computer card from the file, Waverly pushed it toward his assistant, who took it and fed it into the computer.

"But until we learn more, there is little we can do besides wait. Without further data – "

A knock on the door interrupted Waverly. He paused as Wanda from Communications walked in, carrying a small package. Her face was pinched with unhappiness as she placed it on the desk.

"This was just delivered, Mr. Waverly. It's been scanned and appears to be – to not be dangerous." She glanced at Napoleon and blinked, struggling to maintain her composure.

Napoleon took the box with a sick feeling in his gut, but he tipped the lid open. His only reaction was a tightening around his eyes. He passed it to Mr. Waverly, and then laid a gentle hand on Wanda's arm. She covered his hand with hers.

Waverly glanced at the matted hank of white-blond hair, and then set it on the table as far from himself as his long arm could reach. "How was this delivered?"

"It was found in front of Del Floria's, sir. We've traced it, per your orders regarding any suspicious packages, but it never passed through the post office. The postmark was forged. We're making a microscopic analysis of the printing, the ink, the paper – ah!" Wanda broke off with a gasp. Something inside the package had moved!

Napoleon pulled Wanda back away from the table, while Waverly stood up and peered into the box. The fine blond hair wiggled as the bed of stained cotton batting undulated beneath it.

Waverly reached forward as if to prod the thing with the stem of his pipe, but thought better of it. He set the briar aside and extracted a pen from an inner pocket to move the material aside. Something small and dark and hairy writhed in the sudden light.

"What **is** that?"

xoxox

"_Sphecius spectabilis_. Also known as the Spectacled Cicada Killer. Found in the South American countries of Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, French Guiana, Paraguay, Surinam and Venezuela. This specimen appears to be a juvenile male."

"How can you tell? The acne scars..." Napoleon eyed the small insect, now crawling sluggishly around the inside rim of a glass beaker, "or has it tried to borrow your car?"

Dr. Myman squinted at Napoleon over the top of his bifocals as if he were an insect himself. "Very droll, Mr. Solo. The size of the creature – which is sometimes called a sand hornet, but it most assuredly not; it is actually a species of wasp – the color of the rings on thorax and abdomen, and the fact that we found only one cicada entangled in the lining of the box. These wasps lay their eggs on the bodies of cicadas, but female eggs are larger than male, and require two or three cicadas to nourish them through their incubation cycle. Here we have one cicada, desiccated, and one living wasp, so naturally, it must be male."

"Fascinating. I don't suppose he has a birth certificate on him? Maybe telling us where he was born?"

Myman squinted at him again. "This wasp is extremely common in South and South-Central America. The clue here is the cicada. Careful examination of the remains show traces of nitrates, loam, and crushed sea shells – consistent with enriched soil used in the transplanting of tropical plants. By analyzing each substance, we have narrowed down the source to the Atlantic coast of South America."

"One of Garrard's haunts is Brazil."

"In that neighborhood. Now, we can further narrow down the origin by dissecting this fellow and sequencing his nucleic acid. I can pinpoint within a few hundred miles where the cicada upon which it feasted was hatched, fed, bred, and died."

"And you haven't done that yet because...?" Solo drawled, beginning to lose his patience.

"Because there is no need. I don't like to kill things for no good reason."

"No good reason!" Solo said angrily. "you don't think finding and stopping this man – who may be responsible for the death of an UNCLE agent – !"

"Wait! That is not what I meant! Mr. Kuryakin is an excellent fellow. He always brings me rare specimens of insects he find when he is abroad. I am very distressed by his disappearance. That is why I went up to speak to my brother in paper analysis – "

"You have a brother who works here, too?"

"Don't interrupt. The paper stock in which the package was wrapped was made by a Mr. Pava Castelen of Paramaribo, Dutch Guiana. He is as small-time paper manufacturer. His business information is embedded in the watermark."

"How does this help me find where the insects are from?"

That earned Napoleon a blank look. "It doesn't."

Napoleon sighed, and massaged his forehead against a sudden headache.

"However, my brother up in printing and ink analysis – "

"Another brother? How many are there of you?"

Myman gave him a thin smile. "My father was a Mormon and a very successful traveling salesman. Anyway," he tapped the glass with the wasp in it, making the tiny creature buzz angrily, "As you know, the postmark was forged. The ink is common, the writing done with a typewriter, and the paper available all over the globe. Whoever printed it was determined to make sure it could not be traced back to them."

Napoleon knotted his fist, punching it against his other palm. "We're getting nowhere..."

"But! Whoever packed the package was less careful. The cotton batting lining the box was not so anonymous. It was dirty, burrowed through with wasps, and stained with blood. We had assumed that it was Mr. Kuryakin's blood, and most of it was, but some of it was not. And the tape used to seal the box had all manner of traces stuck in the adhesive. It also had fingerprints." He handed a file to Napoleon.

"From your brother in fingerprint analysis, no doubt."

"My sister. My _married_ sister," he added, glaring at Napoleon meaningfully. "There is a computer card attached to that file that contains everything UNCLE has on the man's identity, location, and accomplices."

"What? You don't know everything about this guy already?"

Myman glowered at Napoleon, then sniffed and picked up the wasp jar. "Humans are **not** my area of expertise."

"Of course. Thank you, Dr. Myman." Napoleon saluted him with the file. "My regards to your family."

The scientist pulled off his glasses to peer into a microscope, but his voice followed Napoleon out of the room. "Everyone at UNCLE is family, Mr. Solo."


	6. Welcome to Exotic Buyan

**The Master of the Hunt  
Chapter Six, Welcome To Exotic Buyan**

Illya crept up the stairs – and straight into trouble.

The plan had been to search the structure for resources and a means of communication. It seemed that the luck Kuryakin had enjoyed in his escape from his guards was persisting, as he slipped through the unlocked door into an empty hallway. There were sounds of activity in the house, voices and movement, but none very near.

The agent padded down the woven runner that lined the wooden floor, peering through open doorways into the empty rooms beyond. The murmur of voices became louder as he explored the hallway. He recognized the route he had taken to Koschei's bone room.

Aversion and the desire to eavesdrop warred in Illya's mind, and in that moment of hesitation his luck expired. Garrard, Koschei's lieutenant, stepped out of a doorway right in front of Kuryakin, a bulky bag of something in his arms.

Illya's reaction was swift and immediate; he chopped the blades of both of his hands into the man's throat in a stunning scissor-blow. The man gurgled and dropped his burden, but didn't fall; he staggered back a pace in the threshold, grasping the doorjamb to keep upright.

Beyond the hulking man, Illya could see sunlight streaming in through a wide open door and a line of automobiles sitting idle in their slots. Transportation. It was high on his list.

Illya leaned back to avoid the swipe that Garrard took at him; the big man's face was purple from lack of air, but he still had a lot of fight in him. Illya let his momentum carry him back, braced his hands on the floor and drove his feet into the pit of Garrard's stomach. That cleared the doorway.

Most of the vehicles were open-topped Range Rovers; Illya dove into the one closest to the garage exit. Wires were pulled and crossed in a trice, the engine revving to life and the clutch popping. The Rover bolted out of the exit, scattering a flock of white-feathered birds which had come to roost in the packed earth of the open courtyard.

Trees sprang up around the courtyard, beyond a meticulously cropped area of grass. A road led away beneath the westering sun in a gap in the foliage, and there were two smaller, less defined paths cutting through the jungle. Kuryakin chose the road, hoping to put some distance between him and those he knew would bring pursuit. Getting lost in the jungle would be risky, but it was a good way to avoid capture, an option he would exercise if and when it became necessary. For now, he had three-quarters of a tank of petrol and a head start.

The languid clang of an alarm faded into the distance, and the jungle closed overhead and the drone of cicadas rose to compete with the roar of the engine and the wind in his ears.

xoxox

Koschei sat back in his chair with a satisfied growl. On the desk in front of him lay sheets of paper covered with columns and rows of numbers and letters – all indecipherable until they were placed inside one of his Decipher machines. It was a good system, but he'd been using it for some time and was beginning to think he needed to reconfigure the scrambling codes.

He set that thought aside for more pleasant contemplations. He knew Solo would not charge in recklessly – even to avenge his partner. That wasn't really why he'd taken Kuryakin out of the picture. Solo's biggest edge – the thing that had kept him on top and made him such a detriment to THRUSH and other willfully creative apolitical forces – was his uncanny luck.

Koschei believed in luck. But luck could be manufactured, he had found. A game of cards could be won by stacking the deck, or reading your opponent, or simply cheating. In removing Kuryakin, Koschei had struck a blow to Solo's efficiency and taken the initiative for himself. Solo would either be forced to strike out blindly – wasting time and resources – or he'd be forced to wait, which would decrease his advantage further.

Koschei was pleased. He had time on his side. With his contacts in THRUSH providing valuable intelligence to him daily, he could observe Solo at his leisure. There was no need to rush, only the game to savor. He'd wait for a few days before setting his next maneuver in place.

Koschei flipped a switch on his desk. "Garrard. I wish to go to Paramaribo. I want to leave immediately."

"Yes, Master," Garrard responded. "I'll get the helicopter ready."

"And make sure a Decipher machine is placed on board."

"Yes, sir."

"Did Vasily fix a cocktail for our guest as I instructed?"

"It is being served now, sir. Should keep the little fellow quiet all night."

"Excellent. I will be back tomorrow and we can have our little game then. Proceed."

He would have his Hunt first thing in the morning – an entertaining diversion before breakfast. Kuryakin was a wily creature; Koschei had noticed how he studied his surroundings, how he maintained himself calmly while his devious mind worked. He'd admired the smoothness with which he had pilfered his weapons collection. He was surprised the man had not escaped immediately. Perhaps Kuryakin had simply been unable to get out of the cell, in spite of the tools at his disposal.

Koschei was just preparing to leave when the clamour of the alarm had alerted him. He activated the in-house intercom. "What is going on down there?" When no answers came to him, he took a large gun out of his desk drawer and hurried though the house to find Garrard dragging Kuryakin's guards up the stairs, both too groggy to stand on their own.

"Where is Kuryakin?"

Garrard did not immediately reply to the question, positioning himself behind the barely-conscious figures of Plunkett and Flickinger in case the boss was in a shooting mood. He hoped that if Kuryakin's escape needed to be blamed on someone, it wouldn't fall to him for lack of other targets.

"Well?!"

"He took me by surprise as I was loading your transport." Garrard admitted in a hoarse voice. The bruises on his throat stood out in livid purple on his corded throat. He was holding the men by their collars. He released them and they fell against one another and slumped to the floor in a pile. "These two let him get away."

"Tricked us," Flickinger mumbled. Plunkett snored.

Koschei swore at them. "You bungling idiots! How could you be so stupid as to eat food meant for a prisoner?"

"Din' know 'was drugged…" mumbled Flickinger, trying to stand.

Plunkett rolled over, smiling. "… mmm good… my compliments to the chef…"

Koschei's knuckles whitened on the grip of the gun, but he firmly restrained himself from shooting any of them. "I don't have time for this nonsense… Garrard! I want that man hunted down and dealt with… and I want **you** to take care of it personally! I have work to do." He frowned down at his men.

"For god's sake, call Vasily and have him wake these two up. They can work for you as beaters."

Garrard pulled his shoulders back, stung. "_**I**_ will bring him back."

"No. Do _**not**_ bring him back! Except maybe a piece or two." Koschei was turning away. "Deal with him in your own way. Now, bring in my cipher machine from the Rover…" The look on Garrard's face stopped him. "What?"

Garrard flushed. "Um… he took _your_ Rover, Master... the one that I was loading--"

"Argh! Find that machine and bring it to me! And _when_ you find it, I want you to kill Kuryakin. If that machine is damaged… kill him twice!"

xoxox

It was impossible to tell in which direction one was going; the foliage overhead was so thick as to cut off all of the sun's light except an ambient haze, enough to see the road, but little else. Fallen limbs and drooping vines were constant obstacles. The infrequent glimpses of sky between the fingers of the trees gave a view of a very blue sky with sun that always seemed directly overhead. Rain manifested without care of cloud, dumping through the open roof of the vehicle.

Kuryakin shoved back damp hair from his eyes and drove on. A soggy seat was inconvenient, but eminently preferable to recapture.

The road had run straight out from the compound, but after a short time beneath the trees, it began to wind and twist, following a downgrade that grew sharper with each hairpin turn. Trails and paths branched out in unpredictable places, scrabbling up the steep banks, sometimes plunging off in a suicidal grade.

Illya wished the jungle would part enough to give him a glimpse of the terrain, but the further he went the thicker the trunks of the trees became, ever more dead branches and thick clumps of moss screening out the view. The condition of the road rapidly worsened; it was soon apparent that it was little-used beyond a few miles of the compound.

He wracked his brain, trying to remember something of his journey to this place, before waking in his cell. He recalled a dream of nausea and movement, and the sharp bite of a needle, but nothing else useful. His ears had been muffled—or perhaps it was his mind. He hadn't yet passed a clear stretch of land that would accommodate an airplane, but he had not really had the chance to explore the compound.

He was just beginning to consider the idea of stopping and climbing one of the great canopy trees the road was winding around, when his ears picked up the sound of engines. The heavy air under the leaves dampened and diffused the noise, making it sound as if it were coming from all around.

The road was little more than a path now, so narrow between the vast trees that often he was bumping up over gnarled roots to squeeze through. His face and hair were streaked with green from driving through curtains of Spanish moss. Twice he drove through swarms of insects, buzzing industriously over pools of rainwater. Frequently a six- or eight-legged visitor would drop from above. He calmly brushed them from his arms and face; he couldn't remember when his last malaria inoculation had been, and worrying about it now would be a waste of time.

At last, he had to stop driving. The road ahead dipped so steeply down that it became a virtual ladder, ribbed with tree roots and sporting a steady splashing stream of water that dropped and rolled and dripped from the uneven ledges. There was no turning around at this point: the trees were too close. Backing up would take him into the arms of whoever was following him; he could still hear the roar of an engine echoing through the thick air.

He also had to consider that there might be someone waiting for him ahead. There was no radio in the vehicle, but they might be using handsets. Rather than run straight into any possible ambush, Illya decided to strike out to one side, taking to the trees and trying to keep on a downward grade.

It was then that he heard it; the tell-tale beat of helicopter blades, hammering ominously overhead. That decided him, and he abandoned the Rover, pausing only long enough to take everything that might be useful from the vehicle's emergency kit. He stuffed it all into a knapsack that had been lying on the passenger seat. Then he shouldered the pack and headed into the jungle.

From this point, every direction was uphill. That suited him fine—he wanted to get the lay of the land, and see if he could spot an airstrip. He found a likely tree, a great gnarled strangler fig that looked as if it were old enough to have survived Noah's flood, its lower limbs and trunk entwined with lianas. With the help of the thick vines he scaled easily up the vast trunk to where the limbs were close enough to reach, and from there he ascended the sturdy branches until his head poked up above the humid, leafy canopy.

The hazy light of the sun greeted him as he pushed through the leafy roof. He was soaked from the moisture and sweat from the difficult climb, tired and covered with sticky sap. Dark spots danced before his dazzled eyes for several moments before he realized what they were. Wasps—big ones, as long as his thumb from the tip to the first joint, and striped with red and yellow on their hairy black bodies beneath a blur of brownish wings—hundreds of them, flying over the treetops in an alien dance. Illya let out his breath slowly, then sucked it back in as the impact of an unexpected view struck him.

The treetops spread out in every direction, so thick as to appear solid enough to walk across. Here and there an ancient tree reached through with bony fingers to claw at the cerulean sky. The carpet of leaves rose and fell in places with the landscape, hinting at valleys and hills swallowed by the jungle. Away to the west, where the sun was now hinting, the treescape plunged like a waterfall, flowing around toothy granite cliffs to fall into a great body of water, the surface of which seemed spotted with gleaming white points.

Fishing in the pack for the binoculars he'd found under the Rover's seat, he rooted around something the size of a book, but which was made of metal. He laughed out loud when he realized what it was.

The binoculars were powerful, and when he brought them to focus where the trees and cliffs dissolved into the water, he gaped at the sight. The shining white glimmers he had seen in the water were also trees—drowned and dead trees, standing like stark thin tombstones for as far as his enhanced vision could reach. The water went far to either side of the scope of his vision, curving around him until the trees blocked his view.

The day was ending, but things were just beginning to dawn on Illya. He _was_ on Buyan, the island of Koschei the Deathless—or so his psychotic host would have liked him to believe. Whether it was true or not, shivers crept up Illya's spine.

The sun had been inching across the sky; now it seemed to dive toward the placid blue waters. Once the sun set, he knew he would have very little light left, and under the canopy of leaves it would be as dark as his own tomb. Illya quickly turned around to check for other landmarks.

Beyond an impressive stretch of treetops he could make out a large space, just distant enough to be the compound he had recently quitted. No brilliantly lit airstrip announced itself, but he did see a bald hill rising not far away: a flattened butte that would make an ideal landing site for a helicopter. A pass with the binoculars confirmed his suspicion; a white windsock fluttered on a tall pole on the edge of the plateau.

"Bingo," Illya muttered. He stuffed the binoculars away and began a rapid descent. He wanted to reach that butte before the sunlight forsook him entirely.

He also wanted to get a closer look at Koschei's cipher machine. He had a feeling that the crazy old bastard just _might_ want his little toy back.


End file.
